Harry's Bar: Under New Management

Long long ago, in a far, far galaxy, next door but three to the restaurant at the end of the universe there was a bar. Known most often as 'Harry's Bar', though sometimes 'Sarek's Bar' after its proprietor, it was a warm, friendly, peaceful place where TrekBBS denizens could gather for a pint, a laugh and some gentle fellowship or philosophical debate at the end of their long day's boldly going.

Eh. Who am I kidding? It was a doghouse. A place of drunken brawling and riotousness. A place where any furniture not nailed down was smashed over someone's teeth (and some of the stuff that was nailed down!) A place where mere Bar Fights were for wimps. A place where only the toughest ventured to swill down a quick illegal Romulan ale and get out before one of the more rumbustious clients took a bat'leth to you. It was... glorious!

Finally, after repeated complaints by noise abatement officers, environmental health officers and local law enforcement Harry's Bar was forced to close its doors. A few half hearted attempts were made to reopen subsidiaries in local outposts, but they lacked the cosmopolitan glee of the original. Harry's Bar had gone. Forever.

RevdKathy pushes open the door, shoving back several pieces of broken chair, and enters the stale-aired room. In the dimly lit arena the ghostly shapes of broken furniture rise up under dirty dust sheets. The place exudes deep sadness, and a stench of very stale alcohol.

Kicking aside a chair leg, the Revd picks her way through the broken glass and strange, sticky patches on the floor to the power meter. Shovelling a few quatloos in the slot, she thumps the meter into life. Lights blaze on, exposing the decay and devastation of the bar. RevdKathy sneezes. The juke box coughs into life, sputtering out a slightly flat recording of 'Beyond Antares'.

The Revd sighs. She looks at the staff in her hand, without much hope. Once a tall, all-powerful Admin Stick of Thwacking, the staff now resembles a Morris dancer's stick struck by Ash Dieback (that famous welsh fanfic writer). Like an interstellar McPhee, the Revd thumps her stick on the ground.. once... twice... three times. And twitches her nose bewitchingly, for good measure.

As if by magic, a shaft of light filters through the empty bar, transforming all it touches. Broken tables right themselves, chairs become (almost) usable. The floor is swept and polished by an unseen hand. The bar sparkles with bottles of every kind of drink, strong and otherwise. And there are actually unbroken glasses to drink from! The juke box pounding out 'Bilbo Baggins' is almost in tune. Almost.

The Revd smiles almost imperceptibly, then walks to the door. A shiny neon sign declares “Harry's Bar”. Throwing back her head, she announces to all who will hear:

macloudt, ever the nosy bugger, strolls into the bar. The slightly mad lady who'd thrown open the bar door and shouted down the street that the bar was now open didn't phase her in the least, most likely because macloudt is slightly (or perhaps not quite so slightly) mad herself. She walks up to the bar, and after spending a minute or two hoisting her short and amply padded self on to a barstool in a rather unladylike manner she surveys her surroundings. The place looks old and as if it's been through the wringer a few times. Still, as long as the company's good and the drinks are drinkable macloudt's content. Now, to get to know some of the locals...

*shoots karaoke machine.* GRRRRRRR don't even think about it! No singing! Hell and devil! Not on the black souls of Sarek and Harry... oh and the drunken carcas of T'Bonz. Where she be? Sneaky Romulan stealing ale again?

Been too long a time, back in the day when the board was blue and avatars were in 80x80... yes... back then we had REAL bar threads!!! Thought RevdKathy was a biker back then rrrrrooooarrrr!!
T'Bonz was mostly drunk, shot people at random and threw empty ale bottles around... clothing for an evning here included plate armor, leather and a taser to keep T'Banzai quiet....

J. pushed aside the door, and stared into the dimly lit, smoke filled drinking establishment that had called his name in neon lights from across the street. He sniffed cautiously, for the scent of urine would be a telltale that this pub was less a place of jovial intoxication, and more a respite for the lowly and profane.

Seeing only clean wooden floors, well used tables and chairs, and a host of patronage that represented a more diverse clientele, he felt sure enough to step inside and have a drink.

Making his way up to the bar, he chose a stool that wasn't missing a ball bearing in the seat. "Barkeep", he called out to the world weary but ever alert host who was standing toward the other end, "could I get a Scotch and soda, please?"

He passed the time waiting for his beverage, by examining the counter. Well worn, and likely much loved by the face of every drunk who had passed through this establishment, it had a veneer of usefulness, and a couple of words etched into the surface that he would be hard pressed to repeat in polite company, and until he knew the status of this mixed set, it would be best to not to do so.

Though the cavalcade of drunks on display made him feel that he could urinate in the corner and few would notice, still, for now, he would resist that temptation. Besides, he didn't feel drunk enough yet to push the envelope with what had to be the new owner. Best to play it nice and easy, that way, if all hell broke loose, people wouldn't be looking to him for any kind of admiration or blame. That's for people with health insurance.